Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
That’s not what I expected to hear. “Why would he do that?”
“Because Grimlock is his project. His attempt at . . . redemption, maybe? Building a community where people like him can exist without pretending to be something they’re not. The man’s trying to buy his way into heaven, one small business at a time.”
Something about the way she talks about Blue—with understanding rather than judgment—makes me feel like I can trust her. And maybe it’s the gin, or maybe it’s the way she’s been so matter-of-fact about everything, but I find myself wanting to tell her the truth.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask, glancing around to make sure we’re still alone.
“I’m a bartender. Secrets are part of the job description.”
I take a breath. “There are people who need to die. People who killed my father five years ago and got away with it.” The words come out harder than I intended. “They’re called the Crow, and they’re the reason I’ve been running, hiding, pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Duffy’s expression shifts immediately. “The Crow.” She says it like she’s tasting something bitter. “Our charming neighbors across the Witchwood. Yeah, I know exactly who they are.”
“I want them dead. I’ve wanted them dead for years. I have dreams about it, fantasies about making them pay.” I take a shaky breath. “But here’s the problem—I see blood and I completely lose it. Throw up, pass out, the whole pathetic show. So wanting revenge and actually getting it are two very different things.”
“Ah.” Duffy nods knowingly. “You need a method that keeps your hands clean.”
“Wren mentioned you might be able to help with that.”
Duffy’s demeanor shifts, becoming more guarded. She crosses her arms and studies me carefully. “Did she now? And what exactly makes you think I’d help some newcomer settle a blood feud with our neighbors?”
“I’m not some newcomer,” I say, heat rising in my voice. “I’m staying with Blue. And the Crow killed my father.”
“Lot of people have grudges against the Crow. Doesn’t mean I hand out party favors to anyone who asks.” Duffy’s eyes narrow. “What’s your connection to Blue, really? Because if you’re just some girl he’s keeping around for entertainment, this conversation ends now.”
The dismissive tone makes my jaw clench. “Blue knew my father. They were . . . friends. Close friends. My father asked Blue to protect me before he died.”
Something in Duffy’s expression softens slightly, but she’s still wary. “Peter Mitchell.”
I blink, surprised. “You knew him?”
“Knew of him. Blue doesn’t talk much about his past, but Peter’s name comes up occasionally. Usually when Blue’s had too much to drink.” She uncrosses her arms but doesn’t move toward the apothecary shelves yet. “So the Crow killed Peter Mitchell . . . and now the daughter wants revenge.”
“Now the daughter wants justice,” I correct.
Duffy tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Justice. Right.” She’s quiet for a long moment. “You sure you can handle this? Killing someone isn’t like singing on stage. There’s no applause at the end.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I’ve already . . . it’s not theoretical anymore.”
Duffy’s eyebrows raise and she looks at me with new interest. “Well then. That changes things.” She finally moves toward the apothecary section with more purpose. “Looking for something cleaner than a blade, I take it?” She runs her fingers along various bottles. “You’re definitely not the first. Half my customers are too squeamish for proper stabbing. Good thing I stock alternatives.”
I watch her select a small bottle filled with tiny blue spheres that look like miniature boba pearls. “What are those?”
“These are rather special,” Duffy says, holding up the bottle to catch the light. “Dissolves completely in any liquid, no taste, and gives about ten minutes of consciousness while everything shuts down. Enough time for a meaningful farewell speech but not enough for rescue.”
I stare at the bottle, equal parts fascinated and horrified. “What are they exactly?”
“Trade secret, sorry. But they won’t show up on any toxicology screen. My discerning customers love them.” She pulls out a small velvet bag and drops the bottle inside. “And they’re blue. I thought you might appreciate the aesthetic touch.”
“Perfect,” I say, taking the bag. “Thank you.”
“On the house for a promising new artist.” Duffy’s smile is warm but knowing. “Just remember—poison is an art form. Start small, test your dosages, and never use the same method twice. Keeps things interesting.”
The velvet bag feels heavier than it should in my purse, like it contains more than just tiny blue spheres—like it holds the weight of a decision I can’t take back. But instead of fear, I feel something like relief. Finally, a path forward that doesn’t involve me fainting at the first sign of blood.
I finish my gin fizz in one long pull, the lavender burning slightly on the way down. “Thank you,” I tell Duffy. “For understanding. For helping.”